


It's A Long Way Home, Theseus

by raindropsinautumn



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But only Phil & Wilbur are actually related, Canonical Character Death, Dream Smp, Gen, Ghost TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Ghost Wilbur Soot, Hurt/Comfort, Manipulation, Minecraft, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, SBI Family Dynamic, Sleepy Bois Inc Angst, TommyInnit Angst (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit is Not Okay (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Trauma, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29819628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raindropsinautumn/pseuds/raindropsinautumn
Summary: Tommy really hadn’t thought Dream would kill him. He’d always been more of a torture sort of guy. But no, now he’s stuck in the afterlife with not one but two mentally unstable dead people. All Tommy wants to do is go back home, and his ghost (GhostInnit, he calls himself) really isn’t helping.Meanwhile, the people who knew Tommy in life grieve his death, and Dream finally realizes he might be his own undoing… but he’s going to do everything in his power to prevent that from happening.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 47
Kudos: 518





	1. Afterlife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive spoilers for all streams from March 1 (obviously). I have no idea where the canon is going to go with Tommy's death, but I need answers, so I figured I'd make my own—and my account invitation came just in time! Enjoy!  
> \---  
> I know a lot of stories have warnings at the beginning. I'm just going to preface my work by saying that pretty much every chapter at the very least alludes to blood and death, given that several characters are, you know... dead. So, always assume that warning is in effect. If there's anything else people might find upsetting, I'll include it at the beginning.  
> \---  
> Tommy finds himself in an unfamiliar place.

“Why don’t you go see him yourself?”

  
Dream lunged forward, punching Tommy across the face. “Stop it!” He fell to the floor, only to be hit again. “Stop it, stop it!”

  
The fight itself was nothing new. Tommy had been squabbling with Dream since the prison had first gone into lockdown. But this was different. The punches they’d thrown at each other today were vicious and angry, sent with the intent to hurt rather than just belittle. Tommy wasn’t sure how many more of them he could take, but Dream kept on battering him.

  
“Stop it!” Tommy hated the edge of desperation creeping into his voice. “STOP IT!”

  
Dream’s fist collided with Tommy’s nose, and something _crunched_. Tommy could feel the bone of his skull shift, and then he was in pain. Agonizing, blinding pain. The rest of his body hurt, but nothing like the fire spreading through his head like a bomb. He could feel it in his brain, in his _soul_ -

  
And then it was gone.

  
It was such a relief that it took Tommy a second to realize that it wasn’t the only thing that had left him. He didn’t just not feel pain—he didn’t feel anything at all. Not the bumpy prison floor or the wavy heat of the nearby lava, not Dream’s hand clutching the collar of his shirt and not even his own heartbeat.

  
 _No_. Tommy tried to open his eyes (when had he closed them?) and found that he didn’t seem to have any. _No, no, no_!

  
There was an all-consuming nothingness surrounding whatever was left of him. A moment ago, Tommy would have said it was within him, but now he didn’t seem to have anywhere for it to be. His body was gone, but his consciousness still existed… somewhere.

  
Tommy was pretty sure he was dead.

  
Then there was a rush. It was like the feeling of dropping on a roller coaster, but Tommy lacked a stomach, making it all the stranger. When the rush subsided, Tommy could suddenly feel again.

  
He didn’t feel normal, by any stretch of the imagination, but he was so excited to exist again that he didn’t care. His eyes flew open effortlessly. Not that moving his eyelids was usually hard or required great strength, but it just seemed… easy. Too easy. Like there weren’t any muscles involved in the movement at all. Tommy pretended he didn’t notice.

  
The walls were made of obsidian. For a split second, Tommy thought he’d only blacked out for a moment, and that he was back in the cell. But no, he was at the end of a long, unfamiliar hallway. A faint white light glowed toward the other end. Tommy’s heart sank. Surely, there was an explanation of some sort, surely he wasn’t _really_ -

  
“If this is all for nothing, I swear-”

  
No.

  
“I’m telling you, Loverboy, there’s someone new here!”

  
Oh, _no_.

  
“I haven’t seen anything that would suggest that.”

  
“Right, because you have such a reliable source. Look!”

  
Two figures stepped into view in the distance, the light turning them into silhouettes. Tommy didn’t need anything else to recognize them, though. The voices had been enough, but now he could see the curled horns… the ragged coat…

  
“Tommy?”

  
Wilbur’s voice was a horrified whisper, carried down the hallway like an echo. Tommy found himself rooted to the spot. Wilbur was there. He was really _there_. For the tiniest moment, Tommy no longer cared that he was dead. Then reality came crashing back down.

  
“TOMMY!”

  
When he still didn’t move, Wilbur sprinted down the hall, coat billowing behind him. Tommy finally moved, stumbling backward into the obsidian wall behind him. Wilbur came to a screeching halt. He was close enough now that Tommy could see his brown eyes widen in alarm.

  
“Is it really him?”

  
Wilbur whirled around to face the voice. “Fuck off, Schlatt!” He turned back to Tommy and took a hesitant step closer, his expression softening slightly into barely held back fear. “Are you… _scared_ of me?”

  
Tommy was at a loss for words. This was Wilbur, _his_ Wilbur. The one who he had started L’Manberg with, who had comforted him when he cried. The one who had spiraled in his last days, who had used TNT given to him by Dream to destroy everything Tommy held dear—including himself.

  
“I dunno,” Tommy finally said hoarsely.

  
Wilbur’s eyes betrayed his pain. “Tommy, I’m so sorry.”

  
“Are you?” The words fell from his lips before he could stop them. “Are you really?”

  
“I am!” Wilbur stepped forward again, bringing himself close enough to touch. He reached his hand out slowly until it landed on Tommy’s cheek. He didn’t have it in him to brush the touch away. Wilbur’s next words were choked and frightened. “What happened to you, Tommy?”

  
“I-” Tommy was, in all honesty, not quite sure. “Am I dead?”

  
Wilbur grinned sadly. “Yeah, mate. If you’re here, you must be dead.”

  
“Dream killed me,” Tommy whispered. “Wilbur, he actually killed me!”

  
Wilbur pulled Tommy into a hug. Part of him wanted to shove him away, insist that he was fine, maybe even yell at Wilbur for thinking he wanted his stupid hug. But it was so familiar, so warm, so _comforting_ that Tommy couldn’t do it. He gripped Wilbur’s coat tightly (there was a rip in the back of it he could only assume had been made by Phil’s sword), squeezed his eyes shut, and cried. He was dead. He was really _dead_.

  
“There, there,” Wilbur said gently. “I thought I was gonna have at least another thirty years before you got here.”

  
“Do you not want me here?”

  
“What? No! Well, sort of.” He ran a hand through Tommy’s hair. “I’m very glad to see you. I just wish you weren’t dead.”

  
“Gonna be honest, I thought we had a little more time without you, too.” Tommy’s head flew up from where it was buried in Wilbur’s coat. He hadn’t even noticed Schlatt walk down the hall to them. “Dream, huh? Guy’s a nasty piece of work.”

  
“Go away, Schlatt,” Wilbur snapped.

  
“What, and lose my only company in this hellhole?” He clapped his hands together. “I think not. So, TommyInnit, tell us the tale of your death!”

  
Wilbur shot Schlatt a warning glare. “He probably doesn’t want to talk about-”

  
“Dream beat the shit out of me,” Tommy interrupted. “I got stuck in prison with him and he killed me.”

  
Saying it out loud made him feel better, oddly. Tommy couldn’t put a finger on why.

  
“Ouch,” Schlatt deadpanned.

  
“I’ll beat the shit out of _him_ ,” Wilbur huffed.

  
Schlatt snorted in amusement. “Good luck with that.”

  
Wilbur ignored him, taking Tommy’s hand and starting to lead him down the hall toward the light he had come from. “Come on, Tommy. Let’s go.”

  
“Go where?” Tommy asked hesitantly.

  
“My home,” Wilbur said. “Yours too, now.”

  
Schlatt followed behind them. “And mine. You can’t just ditch me now that Tommy’s here, Loverboy. It’s not gonna work.”

  
“You’re going to stay the hell away from Tommy is what you’re gonna do,” Wilbur told him firmly. “Okay?”

  
Tommy disliked the way they talked about him like he wasn’t there. It was nice that Wilbur worried about him, but it felt hollow. He hadn’t been around to worry about him for months, since he’d gotten himself stabbed. Why did he get to suddenly care now?

  
“I can take care of myself, Wilbur,” he said softly.

  
Wilbur raised his eyebrows. “Tommy-”

  
“I don’t want to talk to Schlatt,” he assured him. “But I can tell him that myself.” For emphasis, he flipped Schlatt the middle finger, who just shrugged in response.

  
Wilbur patted him on the head. “Okay, Toms.” He didn’t sound like he believed Tommy could really take care of himself—why? “Let’s just get you settled.”

  
Tommy didn’t object any further, letting Wilbur guide him down the hall. He raised a hand to protect his eyes as they stepped out from the obsidian walls and into the brightly lit space. When his eyes adjusted, Tommy frowned. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected the afterlife to look like, but it hadn’t been what he was seeing. The sky was white and not as high as it should have been, almost appearing more like a roof. There wasn’t any sun, but a soft light permeated every bit of land like it was high noon, leaving no shadows on the ground. The floor itself was made entirely of a white material Tommy had never seen before. There weren’t any trees or any sort of nature—short, blocky hills were the only things that marked the otherwise completely flat ground. Everything was so… white. And clean. And _boring_.

  
Wilbur led Tommy around the nearest hill, revealing an overhang jutting out on the other side, supported by a couple of pillars. Two lounge chairs were settled underneath it, one yellow and one black. Schlatt did some half-hearted jazz hands as they arrived and then dropped into the black chair.

  
“Welcome home,” he drawled.

  
“This is it?” Tommy couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice. “This is where you guys live?”

  
Wilbur shrugged. “Yeah. We’re dead. We don’t need kitchens, bedrooms, or bathrooms, since we can’t eat, sleep, or bathe. And it’s not like we can build anything better.” He gestured to the ceiling. “This was always here, and it’s all we really need.”

  
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, you can’t build anything better?”

  
Schlatt kicked at the white material that made up everything around them, a movement which somehow didn’t make any sound. “Can’t mine this stuff.”

  
Wilbur pointed behind Tommy, indicating a red lounge chair that he could’ve sworn hadn’t been there a moment ago. “Take a seat,” he invited. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  
Tommy sat down glumly. “I really thought heaven would be cooler,” he groaned.

  
Wilbur laughed bitterly. “That’s not where you are, Tommy,” he sighed. “I don’t know what this place is—hell, purgatory, or something else entirely—but it’s sure as shit not heaven.”

  
Tommy stared up at the hauntingly blank white overhang above him and decided that Wilbur was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! I kind of figured this was gonna be slow going, but this first chapter got twenty hits in twenty minutes, which is way better than I expected. I've been reading on AO3 for a little while now, but this is my first time writing, so thank you for the support (and a special thank you to the person who warned me that I fucked up my tags!). My updating schedule is currently as often as possible, so hopefully at least every 36 hours or so. Also, when I fixed my tags I double-spaced the story. Hopefully it looks a little better now.


	2. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream reflects on what he's done. Tubbo speaks with Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death and blood warnings are still in play, and they will be for the rest of the work. This chapter also depicts a corpse and Dream being a psychopath.

Dream held onto Tommy’s corpse for a moment after he died. The life was gone from his blue eyes, his bloody and bruised face permanently etched into an expression of surprise and… something else. Dream couldn’t quite place the emotion, but he relished the pain that was evident in it. When he did finally let go of the boy’s collar, his body hit the floor with a satisfying _thump_.

There was blood everywhere. Dream’s knuckles were covered in it. He was fairly sure some of it was his own; he’d thrown some pretty hard punches, after all. It didn’t hurt, though. There was still too much adrenaline in his veins. Staring at Tommy’s corpse, at what he’d done, Dream didn’t think the natural high was ever going to wear off. He’d done it. He’d killed Tommy-fucking-Innit.

Dream hadn’t expected it to feel so good. He had expected the fact that he needed Tommy alive would put a damper on the situation, maybe produce some anxiety surrounding his plans, but no. Putting his fist through his face had been simply exhilarating. For a little while, at least, he was free of Tommy.

“Hey!” He couldn’t help but smile at the sound of Sam’s voice. “Tommy, what’s going on over there?” Dream let the silence hang in the air. “Tommy?” He started to laugh, the sound reverberating behind his mask. “TOMMY!”

“Tommy’s not here right now!” Dream called back, tapping the arm of the corpse with his shoe. “He was starting to annoy me.”

“What did you do?” He couldn’t see Sam through the lava, but the pain in his voice was enough for Dream to imagine his face all screwed up with grief. “Dream, what did you _do_!”

“Say, can I have a new clock?” he asked absently. “Oh, and potatoes for one.”

Sam let out a scream of rage, and Dream just laughed. He dragged Tommy’s corpse to the far wall and kicked it into the lava. The smell of burning flesh wasn’t a pleasant one, but it was better than rotting flesh. Apparently, the scent was pungent enough to reach Sam, whose furious shouts and accusations escalated into borderline incoherence.

Not that Dream was listening—he was too busy laughing. Cackling, really. He had plans, and they needed Sam’s anguish in order to work. It was nothing but a domino in a meticulously positioned line. It was just a matter of time until things started to fall into place, and no one but Dream had a clue. It was funny how stupid everyone else was, so Dream let himself laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

\---

Tubbo planned on having a relaxing day. He was going to work on the hotel with Ranboo, and that was all. He needed somewhere to focus his train of thought, because if he left his mind unchecked, it was going to drift to Tommy. Tommy, who was apparently stuck in prison with _Dream-_

He smacked himself lightly on the cheek. There wasn’t a thing he could do about it, so there was no point in worrying about it. Besides, it’d been a week, hadn’t it? Tommy could be freed within the hour. He’d be so happy to get out. Tubbo was sure he’d be fine (because he _had_ to be fine, because Tubbo didn’t know what he’d do if he wasn’t).

Worrying all the time was exhausting. For the first time in forever, Tubbo didn’t have to be constantly fighting, and he’d be damned if he didn’t make the most of that.

When Tubbo spotted Sam standing outside the prison, staring up at the sky, he assumed the best.

Tubbo nudged Ranboo. “Look!” he said. “There’s Sam. D’you think he’s gotten Tommy out of there yet?”

“He might’ve,” Ranboo replied. “It’s been a week, hasn’t it?”

“Let’s find out!” Tubbo grabbed his husband's hand and towed him toward the prison. “Sam! Oi, Sam!”

The warden turned around, gas mask obscuring the bottom half of his face. “Oh.” Tubbo tried not to notice that he didn’t sound very happy. “Hi, Tubbo.”

“Hi!” he said brightly. “How are things at the prison?”

Sam glanced at the ground, and Tubbo felt Ranboo squeeze his hand nervously. “They’re not good,” Sam admitted. “There was an… incident.”

His eyes were red around the edges. Tubbo figured he was just tired. He probably didn’t get much sleep, being the warden and all.

“What kind of incident?” Ranboo asked.

“The prison went into lockdown recently,” Sam said. “Tommy got stuck in the cell with Dream.”

“I know,” Tubbo told him. “It’s been a week, now, hasn’t it? Is Tommy going to get out soon?”

Sam took a shaky breath. “No, Tubbo, he’s not. Dream… Dream snapped. He killed Tommy. I-I couldn’t stop him.”

Ranboo covered his mouth in disbelief. The information hit a wall in Tubbo’s brain. Tommy wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead, because Dream was in prison and the wars were all over and he had his discs back and everything was supposed to be _peaceful_. Dream had said himself that he wouldn’t kill Tommy. He’d said he wouldn’t. So he couldn’t have.

An awkward chuckle fell out of Tubbo’s mouth. “Ah, that sucks,” he remarked, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “So, when is he going to get out?”

Sam blinked slowly, confusion evident in his wrinkled brow. “Tubbo… Tommy’s _dead_.”

“No, he’s not,” Tubbo insisted. “Tell him I’m not falling for his joke, would you?”

Ranboo put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Tubbo, I don’t think this is a joke.”

“Of course it is!” There was something in the back of his mind, slowly breaking, but Tubbo pushed it away, because there was no reason to cry if Tommy wasn’t really dead. “Dream said he wouldn’t kill Tommy—he must just be getting bored stuck in prison is all, and decided to try and prank me. Sam, you really should let him out soon before he does something really silly.” The uneasy glance that Sam and Ranboo exchanged didn’t go unnoticed by him. “Come on, guys, you don’t really believe Tommy’s dead!”

Sam shook his head. “Tubbo…”

“No!” Tubbo was shaking—why was he shaking? “Don’t ‘Tubbo’ me again! I’m the only one that’s not falling for this!” He tugged on Ranboo’s arm. “Come on, let’s go home. We can come back when Tommy finally gets let out.”

Ranboo opened his mouth to object, but Tubbo started heading for Snowchester before he could get a word out. Sam was ridiculous, honestly, falling for one of Tommy’s jokes. It was so obvious that he was just bored in prison. Why couldn’t anyone else see it?

“Hey, wait up!” It didn’t take long for Ranboo’s long legs to catch up with Tubbo. “Where are you going?”

“I told you, home,” he said. “I want to see Michael, we can work on the hotel later.”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay!” The words came out a little harsher than Tubbo intended. “Why wouldn’t I be okay? Tommy’s joking around in prison, so clearly Dream hasn’t gotten to him too bad! He’s doing all right, this is great news!”

Ranboo looked genuinely distressed. “Do you really think Tommy would joke about his own death?”

A little voice in the back of Tubbo’s mind said _no_ , but he ignored it. “Who knows? Do you think Sam’s in on it?” He pointed at Ranboo and gasped. “Are _you_ in on it?”

“What? No!”

“Aw, that would’ve been cool if I just figured that out.” He kept his gaze focused on the walls of Snowchester as they came into view. “Are you excited to see Michael, Ranboo?”

He didn’t reply for a moment.

“Yeah,” he finally said softly. “I’ll get you home and say hi to Michael. Then I should probably go.”

“Go where?”

“I, uh, think there are some other people who would like to hear about Tommy’s… prank,” Ranboo explained. “But I’ll come back soon, okay?”

“All right.”

“And Tubbo?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m here for you.”

Tubbo smiled quizzically. “I know that, Ran. You’re my friend, that’s why I married you!” He took his husband’s hand happily, hoping it would ease the shaking that wouldn’t stop. “I can’t wait for Michael to meet Tommy.”

Ranboo only hummed in return. He was probably just embarrassed that he’d actually thought Tommy was dead for a minute. That was okay. They could all joke about it together when Tommy came back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that Ranboo and Tubbo's marriage is platonic and if I see anyone being weird in the comments I'll steal your kneecaps (:  
> Also formatting is hard, I'm working on it


	3. Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy deals with his new surroundings. Wilbur rethinks his life choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day, pog.

Tommy couldn’t help but keep a close eye on both Schlatt and Wilbur. They both seemed better than when they’d died, but he still didn’t know if either of them could be trusted. He desperately wanted to trust Wilbur. He wanted nothing more than for Wilbur to be the person he was before all the shit that had happened with the election and Pogtopia—the version of him that had his head on his shoulders.

“Tommy, I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me,” Wilbur said. “Can you do that?”

“Sure,” Tommy agreed.

Wilbur leaned forward in his chair, putting his elbows on his knees. “What was the last thing you felt before you died?”

Tommy snorted derisively. “Pain.”

“No shit,” Schlatt muttered.

“Not physically,” Wilbur said patiently. “Emotionally.”

Tommy crossed his arms. “Why do you want to know?”

“You’ve got a ghost wandering around here somewhere,” Wilbur explained. “I want to know what to expect when we find it.”

“A ghost?” Tommy asked. “Like Ghostbur?”

“Yeah. Like Ghostbur,” Wilbur sighed. “Tommy, your ghost will only be able to remember things associated with what you felt when you died. If you were feeling something like rage, he might be a little hard to deal with. So-”

“Wait,” Tommy cut him off, realization settling into his bones with a chill. “Ghosts only remember memories with the same emotion as when they died?” Wilbur nodded hesitantly. “Then Ghostbur only remembers happy things because… because…”

Wilbur pursed his lips. “Happiness isn’t quite the word for it. I… it was more of a melancholic happiness. I was glad to die, honestly, but I had regrets. A lot of regrets, actually; a lot of dreams I knew I’d never fulfill. I wasn’t quite ready to leave the world behind, but I couldn’t stay.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched so hard his ears started ringing.

“The world?” he whispered, his voice threatening to break as he forced the words out of his mouth. “You blew L’Manberg to shit, and you decided that you were going to miss the _world_?” He was on his feet now, tears in his eyes. “What about _me_ , Will? What about Phil? And Fundy? Did you not think about us?”

Wilbur went pale. “I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t mean what?” Tommy exclaimed. “We cared about you, Will! We all did! For months now, I’ve been wondering if you missed me like I missed you. Well, I guess you fucking didn’t!”

Schlatt leaned backward into his chair like he hoped it would swallow him, but his eyes were glued to the pair like they were a trainwreck he couldn’t look away from. “Tommy-”

“No!” he snapped, pointing a finger at Schlatt. “Don’t think I forgive you just because you died for your sins or some shit. You’re the same fucking twat you were when you were alive.”

“Tommy, calm down!” Wilbur pleaded. “I did miss you, I do care about you, I-”

“THEN HOW COULD YOU LEAVE ME?” Hot tears poured down Tommy’s face despite his efforts to hold them back. His chest heaved up and down, but he wasn’t sure he was even breathing, now that he was dead. He bit his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. “How could you leave me, Will?”

Wilbur was completely dumbfounded, his jaw slack and eyes wide. He blinked a few times before he spoke again, like he had to recalibrate after the outburst that had been directed at him. _Please_ , Tommy thought. _Please, please have a decent excuse_.

“I thought you’d be better off without me,” Wilbur finally said.

Tommy ran both hands through his hair, barely fending off a scream of pure frustration. That didn’t cut it. Not even close.

“That wasn’t your decision to make.” Tommy turned on his heel and left the overhang. “I need a minute.”

He could hear Wilbur stand up behind him, but the footsteps didn’t follow him any further. Tommy didn’t intend to go far—just over the nearest hill where he didn’t have to look at Wilbur or Schlatt or the stupid excuse for a shelter they called home.

Once he cleared the hill, he looked up at the too-short white sky above him and let himself scream.

\---

Wilbur went to follow Tommy the moment he turned around, but Schlatt stood and blocked him, placing a hand against his chest. “Let him go,” he said softly. “He’ll sort himself out.”

“Get out of my way,” Wilbur snapped.

“He asked to be alone.”

“Since when do you know what’s good for him?”

Schlatt raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you?”

“Don’t pull that shit with me,” Wilbur warned. “I protected Tommy, I-”

“You blew his home to smithereens then got your dad to run a sword through you while he watched, if I recall correctly,” Schlatt said dryly. “I might’ve backstabbed him and banished him and overall made his life a living hell, but at least I can own up to the fact that what I did was fucked up.”

Wilbur jabbed a finger at Schlatt’s chest. “I care about Tommy more than you’ll ever know. I’ve never hurt him.”

“You’re not the one who decides that.”

At first, Wilbur couldn’t stand the audacity Schlatt had to say that to his face. And then a long, echoing, frustrated scream—Tommy’s scream—rang through the air. Wilbur’s blood ran cold. Tommy… Tommy was screaming because of _him_. Because of what he’d done.

Tommy had been the only one there for him in that cursed ravine as he spiraled. His only memories from Pogtopia that weren’t filled with spite and anger were the ones with Tommy in them. And through all of it, Tommy had never given up on him. He should have. Looking back on it, Wilbur could say that with certainty. But he hadn’t. Tommy had always, _always_ been there for him, and Wilbur had repaid him by blowing up his life and then disappearing from it entirely. And for what? To escape the consequences of his actions? Was he really that much of a coward?

He really did care about Tommy. So why _had_ he left him?

Wilbur sank to his knees.

“Tommy’s not gonna forgive me any time soon, if at all,” Schlatt said, patting Wilbur awkwardly on the shoulder. “And he shouldn’t. But you, Loverboy… you’ve still got a shot to make things right.” He glanced out at the hill Tommy had climbed over. “He’ll come back soon. I’ll skedaddle when he does; give you two some time to talk.”

Schlatt sat down in his chair with a tired sigh. Wilbur bunched his knees up to his chest and stared at the distant white hill, waiting for Tommy to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the lovely comments and kudos! This fic has been getting a lot more attention than I expected. I hope to keep up the frequent updates.


	4. Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ranboo breaks the news. Phil misses Tommy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Tommy's latest stream, huh?

Ranboo was hesitant to leave Tubbo in Snowchester. He should’ve been crushed—not that Ranboo _wanted_ him to be crushed, but he’d never seen such adamant denial before. He’d probably only feel worse when he figured out that Tommy was, in fact, dead. There was no reason for Sam to lie. Plus, it was written all over his face. He’d cared about Tommy, and he was dead.

Ranboo had to leave, though. Techno and Phil needed to know what had happened, and no one else was going to tell them.

He kept his eyes turned skyward for most of the journey home. Though it slowed him down, it kept the tears in his eyes. Ranboo couldn’t let them fall, or they’d hurt him. He had a lot to cry about, but he refused to let himself.

Ranboo managed to make it to the Nether before the tears finally fell.

He wound up sitting on the path with his sword drawn, wincing as his tears carved down his cheeks. He could hardly deal with it all—the pain of crying, of Tommy’s death, of Tubbo’s denial, all against the backdrop of trying not to get killed in the Nether. A ghast started firing him, but he couldn’t even get his bow out. All he could do was hide behind a wall and cry, cry, cry.

“Ranboo?”

Ranboo looked up to see Techno standing above him, aiming a crossbow at the ghast. It died with a screech as Techno fired at it, and his anxious gaze returned to Ranboo.

“What, uh, what happened to you?” Techno asked.

Ranboo opened his mouth to explain, but all that came out was a squeak of pain as another few tears tore their way down his face. He instinctively tried to wipe them off, but the water hurt his hands as well.

Techno pulled him to his feet. “Come on,” he sighed. “Let’s get you home.”

“I can’t stop crying,” Ranboo mumbled miserably, half-collapsing into his chest. “Techno, it _hurts_.”

“Hey. Look at me.”

Ranboo did so and was surprised when Techno carefully wiped his tears off his face, trying not to spread the water around too much. He noticed how a little blood stained Techno’s fingers as he did so.

“Is that better?” he asked, voice bordering on gentle.

Ranboo nodded gratefully. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Techno cleared his throat. “Good. Good. Come on.”

Techno walked ahead of him with his crossbow loaded, pausing occasionally to make sure Ranboo was still behind him. Tears still streaked down Ranboo’s face on occasion, but he made it out of the Nether all right with Techno’s protection from mobs. Phil came rushing out of the house as they neared it.

“Ranboo!” he exclaimed. “Have you been crying? What happened?”

“I’ve got bad news,” Ranboo admitted.

“All right,” Phil said, ushering him toward the house. “Get inside first.”

Ranboo soon found himself seated around a table with Techno and Phil, a blanket over his shoulders and a mug of milk in his hands (Phil had offered tea, but Ranboo had had enough water for the day).

“So,” Techno said. “You said somethin’ about news?”

Ranboo swallowed nervously, trying to keep the grief from constricting his throat again. “You guys remember how Tommy got stuck in prison with Dream?” They nodded. “Well, uh, Dream killed him.” Ranboo stared at his mug. “Tommy’s dead.”

A suffocating silence fell over the room.

“Like, _dead_ dead?” Techno asked eventually.

“Yeah,” Ranboo muttered.

Techno stared ahead of himself, eyes unfocused. “Huh.”

Phil had his face in his hands. His shoulders shook ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry, Phil,” Ranboo said.

He didn’t look up when he replied. “I should’ve been there for him.”

Techno patted his friend on the back. He opened his mouth to say something, but then apparently thought better of it and closed it again. They stayed seated around the table, silent except for the occasional sniffle, before Phil eventually got up and left without a word. Ranboo watched him go.

“Ranboo?” Techno sighed.

“Hm?”

“How exactly did Tommy die?”

“I don’t know,” Ranboo admitted. “All I know is that Dream killed him while they were in prison together.”

Techno shook his head. “Tommy betrayed me. But… I know that Phil cared about him. And I wasn’t lying when I said I would’ve fought the world for Tommy the day of the festival.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ll miss him, I guess. Just a little bit.”

Ranboo knew Techno well enough to understand he felt a lot more than he said. He took a sip of his milk.

“We can miss him together.”

\---

Phil wound up sitting outside in the snow, next to the mailbox. The book Tommy had left about his hotel opening was still in it, since no one had ever bothered to move it. He took it out and held it. Tommy had held it, once. He’d probably written it excitedly. After everything, even Doomsday, he’d thought to invite them to his hotel. Maybe that was just Tommy being a money-scrounging raccoon, but Phil liked to think that it was because he still cared about them.

He hoped that was why, because Phil knew he still cared about Tommy.

Phil had met Tommy for the first time when the kid was five. Wilbur had been learning how to play the guitar at the time, and had taken to practicing in the woods outside the house. He’d come back one day with a tiny little blond kid who’d heard his music and refused to leave him alone. Phil had thought Wilbur would find little Tommy annoying, but he’d been downright enamored with him. Tubbo had been delighted to meet someone his age. Tommy had stayed for dinner, and when he ate like it was his first meal in weeks, Phil offered to let him stay the night. He hadn’t wanted him to go wandering back out into the woods alone. When Tommy refused, Phil had then offered to help him find his parents (because seriously, where were they?), but he’d turned down that even faster. Phil had been concerned, of course, but he wasn’t keen on kidnapping, so he’d let him go.

Tommy kept wandering back to them on the daily, arriving just in time for lunch and leaving at sunset. Phil started setting a place for him on the table after a couple weeks. He’d given him his own room after six months, complete with a bed, which he never slept in. Every day, stubbornly independent, Tommy had departed back into the woods to go “home.” Phil still didn’t know what that meant (he had a sneaking suspicion that Tubbo did), but he’d become certain the kid didn’t have any parents back there when he’d accidentally called Phil his dad after about three months of following Wilbur around like a lost puppy.

Everything had changed on Tommy’s sixth birthday. He’d shyly mentioned it at dinner, and a party had been hurriedly thrown together. That was the day Phil finally convinced Tommy to stay. He owed it to Tubbo, who had given him a gift. Phil couldn’t remember what it was anymore, but Tommy had reacted like it was the first thing he’d been given in years—which very well might have been true.

Phil stared at the book in his hands, Tommy’s messy handwriting proudly proclaiming the inevitable success of his hotel. Tommy had had more life in him than anyone else Phil knew. It didn’t make _sense_ that he could be dead.

A tear fell from Phil’s eye onto one of the pages as he flipped through the book, and he snapped it shut. Guilt and pain clawed at his heart. Tommy had died alone. On his sixth birthday, Phil had promised him that he’d always be there for him—no matter what. So where had he been?

Phil placed his head in his hands as he tried to remember where it had all gone wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I just say that the dynamic between Phil and Tubbo is criminally underexplored??? Phil canonically found him on the side of the road and went "guess I have to raise this child now."


	5. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur has a flashback. Tommy returns to the overhang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback time, folks! Wilbur's perspective in this chapter is all in the past, but Tommy's is still in the present.  
> Canon? What canon?

_ELEVEN YEARS AGO_

Wilbur hummed a melody as he strummed his guitar. He was finally getting good enough at playing that he could sing one thing and play another. It was like he was his own little symphony.

Wilbur gazed at the smoking chimney from his house in the distance. His dad told him he could practice in the woods, as long as he stayed where he could see it. He stuck to that rule. The woods were the best place to practice, so he wasn’t going to risk losing his chance to do so. He closed his eyes as he continued to play, letting the music wash over him. The woods were perfect—peaceful and isolated.

That’s why he was surprised to see a little boy staring back at him when he opened his eyes again.

Wilbur jumped, and the music stopped. The blond boy was at the very least a good five years younger than him. He sat on the forest floor, bright blue eyes staring at Wilbur’s guitar. Their piercing gaze shifted to his face when Wilbur stopped playing.

“I like your song,” the boy said.

“Oh.” Wilbur readjusted his grip on the guitar. “Thanks.”

The boy scampered a little closer. “What’s it called?”

“Mellohi,” Wilbur told him. “I learned it myself.”

“Cool! Keep going, keep going!”

Wilbur smiled. “You really like it?”

The boy clapped excitedly. “Yeah, yeah, yeah!”

“Okay.” Wilbur strummed his guitar again, slightly giddy about having the boy’s undivided attention. He usually practiced alone because he figured no one wanted to hear him play. But here was this strange little kid he’d never seen before who wanted nothing more than to hear his music.

The boy—Tommy, his name apparently was—spent the whole day with Wilbur, asking for more music and clinging to his sleeve at every opportunity. When Tommy came back the very next day and asked to hear him play again, Wilbur decided that he was never letting him go.

It took a while for Tommy to move in with the family, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying. Upon the discovery that it was his birthday, everyone was thrown into a festive spirit. Wilbur wanted to give him something, but he’d been caught unprepared. Tubbo, though, managed to pull a present together that very night.

“Tommy,” the boy said, holding his gift behind his back. “I wanna give you something.”

Tommy perked up at this, and a soft “aw” fell from Phil’s lips. Tubbo shyly revealed his gift.

“You like Will’s music.” Tubbo held the disc out to Tommy, who stared at it in awe. “I like this music. It’s called Cat.”

“I can have it?” Tommy asked softly.

Tubbo nodded enthusiastically. “It’s for you. Forever.”

That was the first time Wilbur saw Tommy cry, clutching the Cat disc as he hugged Tubbo. Laying in bed that night, Wilbur was struck by an idea he was surprised he hadn’t had earlier.

After breakfast the following morning, Wilbur took Tommy up to his room.

“I’m sorry I didn’t give you anything for your birthday yesterday,” he said. “I have something now, though.” Wilbur carefully pulled a disc from his chest. “I thought you might want another one to add to your collection.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Wilbur placed the disc in his eager hands. “Can you guess what song is on this disc?”

“What?”

Wilbur grinned. “It’s Mellohi. The one you like when I play.”

“Mellohi!” Tommy exclaimed in delight. “Thank you, Wilby, thank you!”

He ruffled the boy’s fluffy blond hair. “Now, you can listen to it whenever you want. No matter where you are.”

\---

Tommy hated how quiet the afterlife was. He found Wilbur waiting for him to come back in silence, sitting on the floor. Schlatt was nowhere to be seen. Tommy paused at the front of the overhang, staring at Wilbur, hoping he was going to speak first. Tommy had already made his point abundantly clear, but he was prepared to deliver it again if he had to.

“Are you feeling better?” Wilbur asked.

“A bit.”

Tommy could see Wilbur searching for the right words through the way he focused and unfocused his eyes. That at least that meant he had something to say, and he wanted to say it right, so Tommy let the silence go on.

“I thought you wouldn’t care,” Wilbur finally sighed. “Apparently, I was wrong.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“I’m sorry I left you like that,” Wilbur continued. “You needed me, and I wasn’t there.”

A tiny part of Tommy didn’t want to admit that he needed Wilbur. He’d gotten along without him just fine. Well, until he’d died. He didn’t want to need Wilbur, but he did.

“I wish we could have this conversation alive,” Tommy said.

A flicker of sadness crossed Wilbur’s eyes. What the hell was that about? He opened his mouth, then closed it, his gaze suddenly fixed on a place just over Tommy’s left shoulder.

“Wilbur?”

He only shook his head in disbelief. “Looks like your ghost found us.”

Tommy spun around. Sure enough, a wispy figure was drifting toward them. It bore an uncanny resemblance to Tommy himself, which was incredibly unsettling. Even worse were the blue blood splatters on his face—most notable of which was the jagged line across the bridge of his nose. The ghost’s arms were crossed, and he stopped moving closer once he realized he’d been spotted.

“What the fuck.” It came out as more of a statement than a question, because seriously, _what the fuck_? “Is that my fucking _ghost_?”

“I thought I’d have more time to explain,” Wilbur stammered, standing up next to him. Tommy wondered for a moment if he was talking about the ghost or the conversation he’d interrupted. “Wave him over, he’ll talk to you.”

“I don’t wanna talk to him!” Tommy exclaimed. “Look at him, he’s all mopey!”

“Did you die mopey?”

“No,” Tommy huffed. “What do you think I am, some kind of wimp?”

“Well, then what were you feeling?”

“Mad, and angry, and-”

Wilbur cut him off with a series of wild hand gestures. “Tommy. Honesty, remember? What were you feeling?”

Tommy glanced from Wilbur’s serious brown eyes to the vacant gray ones of his ghost. He remembered his last moments, which made him shudder. He was lying on the floor, beaten and bloody and scared. More than scared, though. Devastated at how he was about to die, furious that he couldn’t seem to do anything about it. As his skull had broken under Dream’s fist, the very last thing Tommy had thought was that he would’ve given _anything_ for Dream to stop.

The emotion was embarrassing, but it was the truth.

“Desperate, Wilbur,” Tommy admitted softly. “I died feeling desperate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, 1000 hits??? Thank you so much! Reading your guys' comments literally makes my day!


	6. Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilbur tries to mediate Tommy's first meeting with his ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter chapter than usual. Just sort of worked out that way this time around, it isn't the new normal.

“I died feeling desperate.”

Wilbur’s first instinct was to comfort Tommy, to wrap him in his arms and never, ever let him go. He shouldn’t have died like that. He deserved better.

But Tommy’s arms were hugging himself and he was angled away from Wilbur, his gaze locked on the ghost that hovered in the distance. He wouldn’t want Wilbur’s hug. Or maybe he would. Wilbur really didn’t know.

“The only way we can know what’s happening back in the world is through the eyes of our ghosts,” Wilbur told him. “If you want to see home again, you need to convince your ghost to go there.”

“That’s the only way?”

“Yeah. Just wave him over. He’ll know who you are.”

Tommy gulped, eyes wide. “You’re sure this is a good idea?”

“It’ll be okay.”

Tommy waved at the ghost, who tilted his head to the side hesitantly and glanced at Wilbur. “I feel like I should leave,” he muttered, despite not wanting to leave at all.

“No.” Tommy genuinely surprised Wilbur by grabbing his wrist. “I… I think he wants you to stay.”

Wilbur stared at Tommy’s hand. “Are you sure?”

“He’s desperate, right?” Tommy abruptly let go. “He’ll want you to stay.”

He walked closer to the ghost and beckoned again. Wilbur followed at a short distance. This time the ghost drifted forward, wringing his hands.

“Hello.” Ghost Tommy’s voice was quavery, much softer than the real Tommy’s. “I-I’m not really sure what I’m doing here.”

“You’re me,” Tommy told him. “I think.”

The ghost chuckled nervously. “I don’t think so. I’m not Tommy, I’m GhostInnit.” His grayish eyes flicked back and forth between Tommy and Wilbur. “Right? I’m GhostInnit.” His gaze lingered on Wilbur for an uncomfortable amount of time. “That’s okay, right?”

Tommy took a shuddering inhale and abruptly turned around, hurrying away from his ghost. He was muttering under his breath, but Wilbur couldn’t make out much besides the word “no.”

“Tommy, wait!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, no, did I upset him?” GhostInnit fretted. “I didn’t mean to. Wilbur, please, you have to help him! Please listen to me, I didn’t mean to!”

It was strange to hear someone beg with Tommy’s voice. Begging was distinctly unlike him. Wilbur could only recall him doing so a handful of times. They’d all happened when he’d been watching through Ghostbur’s eyes, during Tommy’s exile. He’d begged Dream back then—he’d been desperate. Wilbur understood that much without the full picture. He wasn’t in control of Ghostbur when he looked through his eyes, and the ghost didn’t like to spend time on anything that was unhappy. He'd lost count of the number of times Ghostbur had simply turned away from something important, much to Wilbur’s frustration.

He silently agreed to the ghost’s request and chased after Tommy, taking off without a word. “Hey,” he said as he caught up. “You need to talk to GhostInnit.”

Tommy collapsed into his lounge chair. “I don’t want to.”

“You have to.”

“Do I?” Tommy snapped. “Do I really? Tell him to go drift around the living world for me.”

“I think he’d like to talk to you, not me.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk to him!” Tommy ran his hands through his hair. “I look at that fucking thing and all I see is the worst parts of me, Wilbur! Just tell him to go away!”

Wilbur pursed his lips. “Tommy, you really-”

“No!” he exclaimed. “Listen to me! I don’t want to be around that fucking ghost, all right? Stop trying to tell me what you  _ think _ is good for me, because you don’t know shit! Just STOP IT!”

All the energy seemed to deflate from Tommy at once. He curled in on himself, nestling into his chair with glassy eyes that held a vacant, haunted expression oddly reminiscent of GhostInnit.

“Tommy?” He didn’t so much as blink. “Tommy!” Wilbur shook him by the shoulders, but he remained closed off. “Tommy, look at me!”

“He’s remembering.”

Wilbur nearly jumped out of his skin at the voice, not realizing that GhostInnit had crept up next to him. Tommy, on the other hand, didn’t seem to register the ghost’s appearance at all. Wilbur moved out of his hearing range, motioning for GhostInnit to follow.

“Remembering what?” he demanded, keeping an eye on the chair where Tommy was crumpled.

“Death.” GhostInnit’s voice changed tone as if he were suddenly only talking to himself. “Stop it, stop it, stop it…”

Wilbur took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Look, Tommy is having some trouble right now,” he sighed. “It’d probably be best if you went to the land of the living, GhostInnit.”

“I don’t remember liking that place very much. I always felt very empty there.”

“Please.” Wilbur went to take the ghost’s hand, but he was met with his smoky incorporeal form instead. “Go.”

GhostInnit frowned as he glanced toward Tommy. “I make him sad.”

“Yeah,” Wilbur admitted. “Something like that.”

“Maybe I’ll go, then,” GhostInnit said timidly. “I don’t want him to be sad.”

Before Wilbur could even thank him, the ghost disappeared. Wilbur still didn’t get exactly how ghosts worked, but they could go between the world of the living and the world of the dead at will. Ghostbur hadn’t been able to explain to him why that was.

With GhostInnit out of the way, Wilbur returned to Tommy, who hadn’t moved a muscle. “Are you there, Tommy?”

No response.

Gently, Wilbur scooted Tommy from his chair and into his waiting arms, wrapping the long bits of his coat around him for comfort. Wilbur didn’t really know what to say, so he resorted to what he knew best: music.

Wilbur began to hum the tune of Mellohi. It wasn’t the same as it was on a guitar, but it was nice. There were two parts to Mellohi, and Wilbur could only manage to do one on his own. Sometimes, when Tommy had had nightmares as a kid, they’d curled up together and Wilbur had hummed Mellohi until Tommy joined in. That was the sign that he was feeling better.

Wilbur found himself humming alone for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you in the land of the living next chapter (:


	7. Mistakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tubbo encounters a familiar face. Dream experiments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2000 hits? Pog.

Tubbo had intended to visit the prison, but he hadn’t been able to find Sam, so he just kept walking. He wound up at the bench. It felt strange to sit there alone, with Tommy locked up. The jukebox sat nearby, silent. Tubbo didn’t have any discs with him to play. Besides, he thought it would be rude somehow to play music without Tommy there. The bench was their place.

Tubbo got up to leave. It was their place, so he shouldn’t have been there without Tommy. He’d come back when he was out of prison.

A familiar figure exited Tommy’s house. Tubbo was so excited to see him that he didn’t even notice that he drifted through the door without opening it.

“Tommy!” he called cheerfully. “You’re back!”

He turned around, and Tubbo screamed. His friend’s face was covered in blue blood, and he was ever-so-slightly transparent. He… he looked like a ghost. But how could be a ghost if he wasn’t dead?

“T-Tommy?” Tubbo stammered. “What happened to you?”

“GhostInnit.”

“What?”

“I’m GhostInnit.”

“No. No, no, no, no, no!” Tubbo cried. “Where’s Tommy?”

The ghost frowned. “Tommy died.”

“NO!”

Tubbo sank to the ground as the world began to spin. This _couldn’t_ be Tommy’s ghost, because Tommy was still alive. His death was a prank. He was in prison, but he was alive.

So how was Tubbo staring at his ghost?

“Are you okay?” GhostInnit asked, floating closer. “How can I help?”

Well, that was uncharacteristic. Since when was Tommy’s first instinct to help with anything? Maybe he wasn’t real. Maybe Tubbo was just seeing things. He’d rather be totally insane than have Tommy dead.

“You can’t be here,” he insisted. “Tommy isn’t dead, so you can’t be here.”

“Please stop crying.” Tubbo hadn’t even realized there were tears pouring down his face. “Tubbo, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, please stop crying!” GhostInnit sat down in front of him. “Please?”

“I can’t,” Tubbo muttered. “I can’t.”

The dam in his mind broke, and he started to sob. Tommy was dead. It hadn’t been a joke—he’d just been an idiot.

He’d really spent his time relaxing when his best friend was dead.

“Are you sad he’s gone?” GhostInnit asked softly.

“Of fucking course I’m sad he’s gone!” Tubbo exclaimed through his hiccuping sobs. “He’s- he was my best friend!” He finally looked back up at GhostInnit, who had a soft grin on blood-splattered face. Tubbo immediately averted his gaze, disturbed by the smile. “Ugh, I can’t even _look_ at you!”

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t be smiling. I really am sad to see you cry. It’s just…” GhostInnit sighed. “I don’t have many memories of you, Tubbo. I remember that we were friends, but that you exiled me. I also know that I never stopped caring about you. I don’t know why. I remember handing over the discs for you and begging you not to go.” He laughed awkwardly. “Wonder how we got out of that one. I just, I guess… I guess the fact that you cared, that you miss me—well, Tommy—makes me feel better. Like I didn’t spend all that time in the exile you put me in worrying about you for nothing.”

GhostInnit’s words hurt like a whip. Tubbo could hardly separate the guilt for his mistakes, his sorrow that Tommy was actually gone, and his anger that GhostInnit could somehow be glad he was devastated. All of Tubbo’s emotions fell into one big stew of awful, and it threatened to consume him.

“Go away,” he requested as loudly as he could, barely managing a whisper. “Please, go away.”

“I’m sorry,” GhostInnit said. “I didn’t mean to make you sad, I was just trying to be honest. How do I make you not sad?”

“Leave.”

The ghost tilted his head to the side. “And go where?”

“I don’t know.” Tubbo wiped his eyes, trying to take deep breaths. “I don’t care.”

Tubbo knew he’d fucked up the second the words left his mouth.

They weren’t true. He did care somewhat about what happened to GhostInnit; he just needed him to leave so that he could process everything without staring at the bloodied face of his dead best friend. But telling the ghost he didn’t care _immediately_ after he’d expressed that all he wanted was for Tubbo to care about him had been a massive error in judgement.

GhostInnit recoiled like Tubbo’s words had burned him. “You… you don’t?”

“No, I do,” Tubbo said quickly. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“I don’t know!” he exclaimed. “I’m not okay, GhostInnit! I feel like someone stomped all over my heart, so, no, I don’t know why I said it!”

“I _should_ leave, then,” GhostInnit realized quietly. “I make you sad. I… I make everyone sad.”

Well, that was a leap.

“Wait, that’s not-”

GhostInnit smiled at him, and Tubbo suddenly couldn’t feel his legs anymore. That was Tommy’s face, Tommy’s smile, Tommy’s blood, but it wasn’t _right_ , it wasn’t _really_ him-

“I don’t want you to be sad, Tubbo,” GhostInnit said with a sniffle. “I’ll leave.”

Every word Tubbo could think of died on his lips before he could say it. GhostInnit drifted away silently, like a breeze. Tubbo remained where he’d collapsed on the Prime Path, staring at Tommy’s old house. He should’ve gotten up, should’ve gone back to Snowchester or _something_ , but instead he laid on the ground and cried.

\---

Dream cracked his knuckles. He wasn’t sure exactly how long it had been since Tommy’s death (perhaps he should have kept a clock around), but the time felt right.

He plucked a hair from his head. It was longer than he was used to, and dirty. Gross, even. Prison had done a number on his appearance, but it hadn’t stopped him. It _couldn’t_ stop him. A god could not be stopped.

Dream dipped the hair into the mostly-dried puddle of Tommy’s blood. Perhaps he shouldn’t have waited so long—it was hard to coat the hair properly. No matter. He managed it well enough.

He took the hair over to the lava and carefully lit one end on fire. Before it could burn completely, he hurried back to the pool of blood and dropped it. He recited the words he’d translated as the bloodied hair burned.

“Mark me, End. The victim and the killer, reunited, now burn. Revoke your grasp. End the unending. Return the dead to life.”

The fire flickered purple. Then back to orange, then purple again. The flame grew, and pride bubbled in Dream’s chest. It was working. It was-

The flame died.

It wasn’t a magical flash—it was a dull and uneventful death. It wasn’t the conclusion of the spell—it was the failure of it.

“What?” he muttered to himself. “Why?”

The resurrection had started. The spell was legit, it just hadn’t worked. Why hadn’t it worked?

Everything was falling apart. Dream needed Tommy _alive_. He’d killed him with the intention of bringing him back. Gods weren’t supposed to fail, but here he stood, chanting and lighting hair on fire for nothing.

Dream couldn’t keep himself from punching the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's that god complex doing, Dream?


	8. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy experiences something strange. Ranboo finds Tubbo crying.

Tommy desperately missed being able to sleep. Usually, if he felt really terrible, he could just close his eyes and wake up a few hours later feeling at least a _tiny_ bit better. The dead, however, did not sleep. He could close his eyes all he wanted—he was never going to fall asleep.

He became vaguely more and more aware of Wilbur holding him and humming. He almost didn’t want to come out of the daze he’d fallen into; it was the closest thing he could probably get to sleep. There was no point in resisting any longer, though. The familiar melody of Mellohi registered in his ears, and Tommy began to softly hum along. He could feel Wilbur sag with relief.

“Are you okay?” he asked after a minute.

“I’m tired,” Tommy said. “I wanna go home.”

“I sent GhostInnit on his way,” Wilbur told him. “I could teach you how to look through his eyes.”

Tommy sat up with a sigh. “Yeah. That’d be-”

Tommy’s entire body lit on fire.

It felt like he was literally, actually burning. He screamed in agony. His dead form sort of felt everything from a distance, but this pain was immediate and terrible. Wilbur freaked out.

“What’s wrong?” he exclaimed. “Tommy, what’s wrong!”

“It feels like I’m on fire,” Tommy managed through gritted teeth. “W-Wilbur, what’s-”

He couldn’t finish his question, the pain overwhelming him. It was crawling through his veins, digging into his heart. It was _pulling_ at him on the inside, on what might have been his very soul.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

Schlatt was back. Wilbur immediately started spouting profanities at him, but he didn’t leave again. Instead, Schlatt knelt next to Tommy and hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder before recoiling like Tommy’s pain had somehow burned him as well.

“No fucking way,” Schlatt muttered.

Wilbur shoved him away from Tommy. “Get away from him!” he snapped. “Get away!”

“Wilbur, listen to me, I think I know what’s happening!”

The pain disappeared suddenly, and Tommy gasped in relief. Schlatt and Wilbur turned toward him immediately.

“Are you okay?” Wilbur asked frantically, taking Tommy by his shoulders. “Tommy? Are you okay?”

“Feel like I got run over,” Tommy slurred, putting a hand to his head.

Wilbur shot a sharp glance at Schlatt. “What was that?” he demanded.

Schlatt looked oddly frightened. “I think Dream tried to bring him back,” he said. “Doesn’t look like he had everything he needed, or Tommy wouldn’t be here anymore.”

It was like a hole opened up in Tommy’s chest, filling him with raw fear. Schlatt couldn’t be serious. The book _couldn’t_ exist. Dream was just crazy, he was just a liar, he was just _desperate_ -

“Wait, what?” Wilbur asked. “What do you mean, he tried to bring him back?”

Tommy only trembled harder the more he tried to stop. “The… the revive book is _real_?”

Schlatt nodded gravely. “Very.”

A storm of words flew through Tommy’s head, but only one fell out of his mouth.

“Shit.”

\---

Ranboo gathered flowers on his way back from Techno’s place. He took mostly red and white ones to leave at Tommy’s house, but grabbed a pretty pink one, too, to give to Tubbo—he’d like that. And an allium. That was for Ranboo. He thought of a place to put it on the window sill where he could see it every day.

The Prime Path seemed quiet. No one was out wandering besides him, making the usually chaotic world feel empty and sad. Ranboo never thought he’d miss the chaos.

Tommy’s house came into view—as did a hunched figure, collapsed on the path. Ranboo hurried forward, breaking into a sprint when he recognized his husband.

“Tubbo!” he exclaimed. “Tubbo!” Ranboo pulled him off the path and into his arms, careful not to touch his tear-streaked face. “What happened?”

“Tommy’s dead!” Tubbo sobbed. “He’s dead!”

Oh. So realization had finally settled in for him.

“Yeah,” Ranboo said softly. “He is.”

“I thought it was a _joke_ , Ranboo. I convinced myself that my best friend’s death was a fucking _joke_.”

“That’s not your fault. It just shows how much you care.”

Tubbo began crying even harder. “Now I don’t even know where his ghost has gone,” he stammered. “I should’ve been nicer, I should’ve-”

“Hold on,” Ranboo interrupted. “His _ghost_? Have you seen him?”

“It was awful. He’s a mess.”

 _So are you_ , Ranboo thought. “Come on,” he sighed instead, trying to get Tubbo to his feet. “Let’s get you home, all right?”

“I want to stay here.”

“Tubbo, the sun’s going to set soon.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” Tubbo reluctantly let Ranboo pull him to a standing position. “Would you like to leave some flowers first?”

He nodded numbly, accepting the red flowers Ranboo held out to him. They placed them in silence. Ranboo considered arranging them in a fancy pattern, but randomness seemed more fitting for Tommy. When all the flowers were planted, Ranboo took Tubbo’s hand and gently guided him back to Snowchester. He tried to use his tall frame to block the prison from view as they passed by it.

Tubbo went straight to his bed when they arrived. Ranboo tucked him in, wishing more than anything that he could wipe away his tears.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Ranboo told him softly.

“Okay,” Tubbo croaked.

Ranboo didn’t leave his side until he fell asleep. A wave of exhaustion crashed over him as well. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes again, but Ranboo refused to let them. He couldn’t cry. He was so useless he couldn’t even help somebody else that was crying. Even in sleep, Tubbo looked miserable. Ranboo took a deep breath. Tommy had been his best friend. A small part of Ranboo wondered if Tubbo would ever be the same.

And then there was the ghost, which Tubbo had apparently seen. Somewhere out there was a shadow of Tommy. Ranboo couldn’t help but want to meet him, despite Tubbo’s report that his encounter with him had been awful. Tommy’s ghost could have the answers to what had happened in the prison, and something inside Ranboo demanded to know the truth—the full truth, no matter how awful it was.

Ranboo stepped outside the cabin for a breath of fresh air and was abruptly overwhelmed by his sleepiness. It clawed at him, demanding that he rest immediately. His head started to spin. Ranboo never felt his eyes close or his body fall to the ground, but his consciousness was shoved backward in his mind, and he was suddenly sound asleep.

Ranboo stayed trapped in sleep as his body began to walk forward, mindlessly following the instructions it received from someone far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, your comments give me life. Keep 'em coming!


	9. Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam checks up on the prison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giving my man Sam his own chapter, pog.

Sam had never had trouble waking up in the mornings before. He tended to be an early riser, getting up and getting things done. Now, he could hardly get out of bed. He felt as though he was anchored to his pillow, tied there by his own guilt. Part of him never wanted to see the prison ever again. It was a monolithic representation of his failures, and the fact that he’d built the damn place made it even worse. But Sam had a job to do. And a prisoner he could _never_ allow to escape.

So he got up.

Sam did his security checks, diligently as usual, forcing his mind to stay on task. His hands started shaking when he reached the last room before the main cell. He didn’t want to let himself think about why, but the thoughts came unbidden. The awful smell of burning flesh filled his nose. Sam didn’t know if it still hung in the air, or if it was just his mind playing tricks on him. He shuddered at the memory, the _horrible_ memory, of the exact moment he’d realized Dream was burning Tommy’s corpse. That was when it had hit him that he was dead. Tommy had gone silent and Dream had laughed, but the smell had made it real. Sam couldn’t even remember what exactly he had screamed at Dream. He didn’t even know if he’d gotten actual words out or if had just been anguish vocalized, but he’d shouted until his throat was raw. Tommy had been a teenager with a whole life ahead of him and Dream had snuffed that like it didn’t matter. He’d deserved a hero’s funeral at the very least. Instead, he’d received an improvised cremation in a prison he didn’t deserve to be in at the hands of his murderer, who also happened to have abused him in the past. And it was all Sam’s fault.

The more he thought about it, the worse it was, so he tried not to dwell on it too much. He embraced the surface emotions of guilt and sorrow, but tried to keep his mind off of exactly why he felt them. It was becoming clearer and clearer that it was impossible to do. Sam tried anyway.

He finished his security checks and began standing guard on top of the prison, leaning on his trident. The view was nice. The Big Innit Hotel was a prominent part of it. Sam shifted his gaze toward Snowchester instead.

After a minute, he began pacing the roof. It was smooth under his feet, which was frustrating. All those explosions earlier, and there wasn’t a single mark to show for it anywhere in the building. There had to be a logical explanation. Sam just couldn’t find it.

One corner of the prison was covered in snow. Sam sat down in it with a sigh, watching as snowflakes drifted down around him. They landed all around, slowly building the covering flake by flake. A couple blocks were hardly dusted at all compared to the others around them. Sam didn’t think much of it at first, but he quickly backtracked, placing his hand against the obsidian. It was freezing cold and being actively snowed on, yet it hardly had any snow on it. Someone or something had definitely moved the snow—or even the bricks themselves. And it hadn’t been Sam.

He got his pickaxe out immediately and mined the obsidian away with some difficulty. Everything looked normal beneath them, but Sam’s suspicions remained, so he dug one more layer down.

And there was a tunnel.

Someone had dug a _tunnel_ into his prison.

Cursing under his breath, Sam drew his sword and leapt into the dark passageway, sprinting down it as fast as he could. He was terrified of what he might find at the end, but he was even more scared of not finding it at all. He had to know what was happening.

He turned a corner and froze. Not far in front of him was a hunched and shadowed figure, chipping away at the wall ahead with what sounded like a slowly breaking pickaxe. The work had clearly taken its toll—they struck at the pace of a snail, mining fatigue dragging them down. And yet they didn’t stop.

Sam pointed his sword at the silhouetted figure. “Turn around. Now.”

The figure froze before turning around slowly. He straightened his posture as he did so, nearly hitting his head on the low ceiling. To Sam’s horror, he recognized him.

“Ranboo?”

But it wasn’t, really. He seemed… off. The quick lighting of a torch showed Sam that Ranboo certainly wasn’t his usual self. His eyes were unfocused and glazed over, the colors half as intense as they were supposed to be. Ranboo opened his mouth to speak, but he moved it differently than usual. No words (that Sam understood, at least) came out when he tried to talk. A stream of garbled sounds that might have been another language entirely fell from Ranboo's hardly moving mouth. He was thoroughly disheveled, easily more dirty than Sam had ever seen him before.

“Ranboo, are you there?” The hybrid replied in the strange language with a disturbingly jovial tone. “I don’t know what you're saying. I need an explanation as to what’s going on here right now, or I’ll have to lock you up.”

Ranboo tilted his head to the side with a jerky motion as if he were considering it. Then he lunged.

Sam dodged the attack easily. Ranboo turned back around for another pass, enderman noises bouncing off the walls. Sam tripped him with his sword.

“Ranboo, it’s me, it’s Sam!” he exclaimed. “What’s going on with you?”

He didn’t receive an intelligible reply. Ranboo dragged himself to his feet, clearly exhausted, and leveled an axe at Sam. He put his sword away and opted to grab Ranboo’s arm instead to keep him from swinging the axe.

“Ranboo, can you hear me?” he asked. “Wake up, man!”

He let out a snarl of sorts. Something told Sam that he needed to use his sword, that Ranboo was a threat to the prison's security, but he couldn’t do it. Not after what had happened to Tommy. Ranboo was just a kid, and something was very clearly wrong with him. He needed help, not a sword through the chest. No matter what protocol said.

Sam used the hilt of his sword to knock Ranboo out cold. The lanky hybrid collapsed, axe clattering to the ground. Sam kicked it away and began towing him back toward the tunnel’s entrance. It was difficult to be gentle, but Sam tried. With a considerable amount of effort, he managed to get Ranboo into one of the holding cells before he regained consciousness. Sam stayed outside the door, deciding he’d wait for him to wake up. He crossed his arms as he looked at Ranboo’s limp form splayed on the prison cot.

“I don’t know what’s up with you,” Sam muttered. “But I’ll help you. I swear.”

He looked up at the ceiling as tears abruptly filled his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry. _Please_ , he thought, hoping somehow that the universe could hear him. _Please, let me be able to save him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3000 hits! Wow!  
> Also I meant to post this chapter yesterday but I literally fell asleep while writing it. So. Here it is now.


	10. Search

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tubbo wakes up alone. Tommy tries to figure things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow okay we have officially drop-kicked the canon. Today was quite eventful.

Tubbo expected to find Ranboo waiting for him when he woke up, but he wasn’t there. It wasn’t like him to not follow through on a promise.

He spent the morning with Michael, trying to keep his mind off of Tommy and GhostInnit as he waited for Ranboo to return. When noon came and went, Tubbo officially became worried. There were a million things that could have happened to make Ranboo leave, but he couldn’t think of one that would make him break a promise and leave him absent for hours without so much as a note.

Tubbo didn’t know exactly what to do, but he wasn’t about to do nothing. He wasn’t going to sit around and pretend everything was fine again. So he began searching for clues. There was nothing out of place in the house. He wandered outside and found footsteps in the snow, leading out of Snowchester. Tubbo bit his lip uncertainly. The footprints looked like they belonged to Ranboo. Why would he promise to stay and then leave?

Still, an irritating little voice whispered in the back of Tubbo’s mind that he was overreacting. Everything was probably fine, something had come up, Ranboo forgot, he decided he had more important things to do-

No. That wasn’t like Ranboo. Something was definitely wrong.

Tubbo dipped back into the house to collect supplies and say goodbye to Michael. “I’ll be back with Ranboo soon, okay?” he told his son. “I’ll be right back.”

Just in case Ranboo came back without him, Tubbo slipped a note in the mailbox on the porch before he left. Then he adjusted his backpack and set off. The footprints disappeared along with the snow, leaving Tubbo wandering blind, but he tried not to feel discouraged. There were only so many places Ranboo could’ve ended up. Tubbo would find him. He’d already lost Tommy; there was no chance in hell he was going to lose Ranboo.

\---

It took Tommy a while to calm down enough to explain all the recent events to Wilbur and Schlatt, and even longer to finish the actual explanation. Schlatt apparently didn’t get along with his own ghost and didn’t even know if he was in the living world or the afterlife. Wilbur didn’t look through Ghostbur’s eyes 24/7 and the ghost had a tendency to avoid anything sad, so overall, both of them were rather out of touch. Plus, they couldn’t stop arguing with each other. Tommy was pretty sure that one would have killed the other by now if they weren’t already dead.

“So, let me get this straight,” Wilbur sighed. “Schlatt handed over a book that can revive the dead to Dream, who now seems to be trying and failing to use it to bring you back to life?” Schlatt and Tommy shrugged. “What the fuck?”

“In my defense, I was drunk,” Schlatt muttered.

“That’s not a fucking defense!” Wilbur exclaimed. “You shouldn’t have been drunk!”

“But I was.”

Wilbur ran his hands down his face. “Unbelievable.”

“What I don’t get,” Schlatt said, “Is why Dream wants to bring you back at all, Tommy.”

“I don’t know, either,” he groaned. “Don’t get me wrong, coming back to life would be great, but that devious green motherfucker isn’t the one I want to bring me back. It doesn’t feel right. Like… like he’s jerking me around on a string or some shit.”

“We need answers,” Wilbur said decisively. “This is too weird to ignore. I’m not going to get much cooperation from Ghostbur, he’ll run away from anything helpful. Our best shot right now is GhostInnit.”

Tommy shook his head reflexively, then froze. He wanted nothing to do with GhostInnit—he freaked him out. But he did want to see what had happened since he’d been gone.

“Tommy,” Wilbur said. “This is our best chance. I’ll help you see through GhostInnit’s eyes. Trust me.”

He hugged his knees to his chest. “I don’t know.”

“We need to figure out what Dream’s up to.” Wilbur was pushing again, and Tommy could feel the panic in his chest rising. An deep instinct in him told him to do whatever Wilbur said. Tommy hated it. “You understand that, don’t you? You have to-”

Wilbur cut himself off abruptly, his expression softening as he looked into Tommy’s eyes. The eye contact lasted a little too long for Tommy to be comfortable.

“I…” Tommy began the sentence but found himself unable to finish it.

“It’s up to you,” Wilbur said gently. “It’s up to you, Tommy. I won’t push it.”

Tommy replied hesitantly after a moment’s pause, afraid that he’d break the bit of progress being made as soon as he spoke. “You’ll help me if I do it?” he asked.

Wilbur nodded slowly. “If you want me to.”

An enormous wave of relief crashed through Tommy’s mind. Wilbur got it. He understood where he’d gone wrong, and he was trying to fix it. For the first time since he’d died, Tommy felt like Wilbur cared about his opinion. It was such a small thing. All he’d done was promise not to force Tommy into something he didn’t want to do. But it was a step forward, and an important one at that.

“I’ll do it,” Tommy agreed before Schlatt could spoil the moment. “And I want your help, Will.”

Wilbur beamed at him. “Good. Great. Excellent. Get cozy in your chair, then.”

“Are we doing this now?” Schlatt asked. “Like, right now?”

“Nothing better to do,” Tommy muttered, adjusting his sitting position. “What next?”

“Close your eyes,” Wilbur instructed. “Imagine yourself falling back into the living world. There should be a certain place where you feel you have to go.”

A specific location didn’t come to mind, but Tommy felt as though he was being tugged in a certain direction. “Gotcha.”

“You should feel a pulling sensation. Don’t resist it. I’ll warn you now, it’ll be a little disorienting when you drop into your ghost. I’m right here to talk you through it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good luck,” Schlatt told him.

“Let me know when you’re in,” Wilbur said.

Tommy gave in to the pull. He was rushing toward something at an alarming rate. It was growing closer, and closer, and-

It was freezing.

Tommy tried to look around, but his eyes were locked on the snow falling from the clouds above him. He tried to take a step. Nothing happened.

“Uh.” Tommy was almost surprised to find that he could still speak, although he was nearly positive it was his voice in the afterlife and wouldn’t be heard by anyone near GhostInnit. “Wilbur?”

“I’m here. You can’t move GhostInnit, Tommy. I can tell you’re trying.”

The ghost started moving on his own accord. “Oh, he’s going somewhere.”

“Somewhere good?” Schlatt asked.

Wilbur shushed him. “Do you see anything familiar?”

Tommy started to say he didn’t, but that suddenly changed. GhostInnit drifted over a familiar hill, striking Tommy with a view he recognized well. GhostInnit kept drifting forward, and Tommy was half-tempted to jump out of the specter’s head as he reported his location to Wilbur.

“I-I’m at Techno’s cabin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GhostInnit on the move, what will he do.


	11. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Techno grapples with the fact that people have feelings.

Techno usually preferred to sharpen his weapons outside, but the snow was coming down a little too hard for that to be reasonable, so he sat by the fire while he worked. Phil, who hadn’t said much since the news of Tommy’s death, couldn’t be convinced to do the same. Techno was worried about him. He always wanted to be alone lately. Techno didn’t mind being by himself, but it was Phil that usually brought people together. Seeing him choosing to be alone over and over again unnerved Techno.

The grating sound of whetstone on metal kept Techno’s head clear enough to try and find a solution. It was louder than the voices, especially in the close confines of the cabin. He didn’t have a clue what to do, really, but he made the effort to think about it. Maybe Phil just needed someone to be there for him. Or maybe he needed the alone time. Techno sighed and put down his whetstone, inspecting his work. Why were people so complicated? He’d known Phil for years, but still-

Somewhere outside, Phil screamed.

The piercing sound burst through the cabin walls and rang in Techno’s ears. He was on his feet immediately, grateful to already have his sword in hand. The voices started chanting, demanding Phil’s safety, demanding the blood of whatever had made him scream. Techno threw the door open and was met with a blast of cold air and big white snowflakes. Phil was on the ground not far from the porch, staring up at a person in front of him. Techno strode forward with his sword drawn, not even worried about who it was because it didn’t matter. They’d hurt Phil and Chat wanted _blood_.

“Techno, wait!” Phil called. “Stop!”

Techno froze. Stop? Why? He narrowed his eyes at the person standing in the blizzard. His features were splattered with blue blood and a little blurred with transparency. The hazy outline of his body was melting in the snow, but Techno recognized the ghost.

“Tommy?” he asked.

“G-GhostInnit,” the ghost corrected softly. “I’m sorry I scared you two.” He put a hand up to shield his face from the snow. “I-I’m sorry. I know you don’t like me much, but it’s really cold and I’m starting to melt and-”

“Techno, take him inside,” Phil requested, gaze locked on GhostInnit’s face. “Please.”

Techno wasn’t particularly keen on the idea. He and Tommy hadn’t exactly ended on the best of terms, but he had cared about the kid. That was part of why it hurt so much. Tommy had betrayed him. Techno had little interest in helping him, or his ghost. But if Phil wanted GhostInnit to be taken inside, Techno would do it. He’d promised he’d do anything for him, and Techno was a man of his word.

“Sure,” he sighed, beckoning to the ghost. “Come on.”

He held the door open for GhostInnit, who drifted in with a shyness that was very unlike the Tommy Techno had known. Phil watched him go, but he didn’t move from where he sat in the snow.

“You comin’ in?” Techno asked.

Phil blinked slowly as he processed the question. “Yeah,” he said after a pause. “I’m coming.”

Techno offered him a hand to pull him up, and Phil accepted. His steps seemed hesitant as he reentered the house. GhostInnit was standing near the fireplace. Techno could see right through him to the flames, which flickered strangely behind his transparent form.

“I’ll leave soon,” GhostInnit promised. “Don’t worry.”

“Why would you leave?” Phil asked softly.

Techno raised an eyebrow. Why _wouldn’t_ he leave?

“People don’t like me,” GhostInnit said. “I make them sad.” He looked at Phil and tilted his head to the side. “See, even you’ve got tears in your eyes.”

Phil looked like he’d been sucker-punched. “What do you mean, even me?”

“Well, you didn’t really care about me, did you?”

It wasn’t an accusation; the ghost was just stating what he thought were facts. Techno knew the truth, though. Despite everything, Phil cared. He was one of those people that just couldn’t stop caring. He pretended he didn’t, sometimes, but everything he’d ever done had been for someone else.

“He did,” Techno blurted. “Phil cared.”

GhostInnit glanced back and forth between the two of them. “Then where was he?”

Phil left the room abruptly, face in his hands. He hurried across the walkway to his house and shut the door so firmly that the whole structure shook. Techno stared after him, rooted to the spot. What was he supposed to do about _that_? Chat clamored through his mind, clearly worried but talking too fast to be understood.

“Are you gonna send me away, too?” GhostInnit asked.

“Heh? Why would I do that?”

“People keep asking me to leave.”

Techno shook his head. “I won’t make you leave as long as Phil wants you here.”

GhostInnit turned his skeptical, grayish eyes to the door Phil had left through. “I don’t think he wants me here.”

“He does,” Techno insisted. “I guess I should go talk to him. Just, like, sit down for now. Or hover on top of a chair, or whatever ghosts do. I’ll be back.”

He headed for the door, but GhostInnit called after him, stopping him in his tracks.

“You aren’t sad, are you?”

Techno turned to face the ghost slowly. He was, in all honesty, a little sad. He missed the raccoonish boy that always had something to do and even more things to say. But Techno had lost that boy long before Tommy had died, and the ghost in front of the fireplace certainly wasn’t him. It pulled at his heartstrings a little bit, seeing a shell of the Tommy he’d known, but GhostInnit didn’t need to know that. Nobody needed to know that.

“No,” Techno said. “I’m not sad.”

Chat finally agreed on something, yelling a single word in unison: _LIAR!_

Techno elected to ignore them.

GhostInnit stared at his hands, a small smile flickering across his face. Techno noticed that he looked exhausted. Not only was he covered in blood and all sorts of small injuries, but there were bags under his eyes and his hair was messy like he’d been pulling at it nervously. Techno did that himself, sometimes.

“Good,” GhostInnit said softly. “I’m tired of people being sad.”

Techno nodded curtly and left before GhostInnit could say anything else to make him think about whether or not he was lying. He knocked on Phil’s door twice.

“Techno?”

“Uh, yeah,” he replied. Who else would it be?

“Come in.”

Techno pushed the door open slowly. Phil was sitting on the floor, clutching a photo. Upon taking a seat next to him, Techno saw that it depicted a much younger Tommy, sound asleep in a bed with bright red covers.

“I took this the first night he stayed with us,” Phil said, voice choked. “He’d had that bed for months, but it was the first time he slept in it.”

Techno nodded, not sure what to say. “It’s a nice picture.”

“Do you think he just doesn’t remember?” Phil asked. “Or do you think he really didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That I cared.” Phil wiped his eyes. “That I _do_ care.”

Techno shrugged. Chat yelled at him to comfort Phil, but he didn’t have a clue where to begin with that.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you could ask him.”

“You think he’ll listen to me?”

“I think he’ll do anything if you tell him it’ll make you happy.”

Phil took a deep breath. “I’ve been a bit of a mess lately, haven’t I?”

“I mean, Tommy died, so I’d say you’re pretty justified in being a mess.”

“I guess.” Phil stood up. “I’m going to talk to Tom- talk to GhostInnit. Then I’m going to pack.”

Techno frowned. “Pack?”

“I’m paying the prison a visit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly the more I write this fic the more excited I get about it, hope you guys are enjoying this as much as I am


End file.
